Oozing with Love

Margaret has been away for a week having a blast with her cousins in Ohio. She comes home today, and I'm eager to see her. Not only because I missed my sweet girl a ton, which I did, but also because it's been a little weird not having someone around to comment on my appearance, my clothing, and especially my acne.

When I was growing up, that role was fulfilled by my older brother John. "Hey Schween-bag, can I carry your zit?" he would ask with a smile/sneer, stretching his arms out in front of him as if he carried a boulder. I think the proper grammar would have been, "May I carry your zit?" but he certainly made his point.

On the other hand, Tim could see an oozing pustule akin to Mt. Vesuvius on my face and say nary a word. I think he lives in fear of my reaction.

Before I married him, I informed him that while I would be a certain size on our wedding day, I wanted NO comments about weight throughout our marriage, either to me or to any of our future daughters. I had seen too many friends deal with the crushing burden of eating disorders and poor body image to tolerate any nonsense from a man who I believed, from peering into the crystal ball of my father-in-law's physique, would always hover around a spry 145 lbs and would never experience the bodily havoc of birthin' babies.

Knowing my penchant for jumbo bags of Twizzlers and Little Debbie Swiss Cake rolls, this promise could have bothered Tim, but he never let on, nor has he EVER commented on my weight, positively or negatively, in the past 20 years...even when I outweighed him by more than 40 lbs before (and after!) the birth of our scrawny baby Jack.

Sooooooo, I guess it's no surprise he does not dare comment on my adult acne.

Neither did Jack, who got many of his mild-mannered traits from his dear dad. I must tell you that a peri-pubescent (new word?) Jack did once say to me, "That shirt makes your boobs look big. But in a good way" which made me chuckle.

But from Margaret, who as a speech impaired toddler caressed my thigh and said, "'Dat bumpy MaMa," I can always count on a little zit commentary when applicable.

Which seems to be more and more often as I get older.

So I've missed her, of course. And I'm counting down the hours until I can give her a hug, at which point she can weigh in on the constellation of pimples on my chin and forehead and any/all embarrassing habits I may have picked up while she was gone.


P.S. If she asks you if I played with her hamster, Bear, while she was away, please say YES. Thanks.

No Photo Today

Sorry for the blog silence. I’ve been occupied with a little science experiment over here. About 10 days ago I got a medium-sized zit right in the middle of my cheek.

I’d like to believe my breakout days are over now that I’m pushing 40, but no such luck. Anyway, in the decades in which I’ve been dealing with zits, I have NEVER been able to just leave one alone. Sooooo, when this thing showed up in the middle of my face, I thought, “What the heck? Why not do what all the magazines advise, and just let nature run its course?”

No poking, no prodding and certainly no picking. I mean, I’m not looking to meet someone special, so no problems there. I work in a church, so I was hopeful people would be kind as my little buddy and I made the rounds.

So, I left it alone. For 10 days. It went on my big weekend trip with me (more details on that another day) and my sister said it was barely noticeable. Tom withheld all comment; I mean what’s the safe thing for a husband to say when his wife is sporting a whitehead for upwards of a week? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Good man.

I think the zit was relatively unobtrusive, but I did wonder if people knew that I knew it was there. I mean I’ve definitely had the secret urge to inform someone if there’s a zit on her face just ripe for the picking, as if she doesn’t realize it. But this time, I was the one w/ the elephant in the room, or on my face, that no one was talking about. The zit was on the other cheek, I suppose.

Anyway, after 10 days of delicate cleansing, toning, and absolutely leaving it alone, my zit showed no signs of budging. It was small, round and innocuous, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

Until this afternoon when I couldn’t take it one second longer. I mean, 10 days? 10 days! There are limits, people.

Now I’m having popper’s remorse.

What promised to be a quick little intervention deteriorated into major excavation. Relief did not come. There was blood. The left side of my face is swollen and red. Little lines of swollen-ness inch down toward my mouth. Bare Minerals ain’t covering this sucker up now. I wonder what Tom is going to say when he gets home.

If he’s lucky: nothing.